


Distance

by christobop



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9240449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christobop/pseuds/christobop
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky, after various injuries due to not listening to his growing body, retires at 25, nearly becoming a social recluse. One gloomy day in October, two chance phone interactions throw his new life into flux. How will Yuri deal with rekindling old friendships and will they accept Yuri back into their lives with open arms?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic since I was like, 13. I'm not too savvy with skating stuff, so hopefully this is accurate. Enjoy.

Each morning, Yuri stayed in bed for three hours after waking. It was a welcome change after years of waking up before the sun had risen for practice, but now it dawned on him daily that he missed the routine and the rigor of his regimens. Even in his dreary state, dusty with the blanket of sleep, Yuri managed to pointe his toes into a satisfying crack. His ankles weren’t what they used to be. Then he worked his way up, hour by hour, limb by limb, until his knees, hips, spine, shoulders, elbows and even neck were spoken for. All before even opening his eyes.

As he did, the vision of his bedroom came into focus. Grey walls, grey curtains. There wasn’t much color save for the leopard print quilt that had been tossed aside in sleep. He lifted himself up on one arm and reached off the bed, retrieving the rogue comforter, tossed it back onto the foot of the queen-sized mattress, and slung his feet onto the floor.

He hadn’t grown much since his heyday. He was standing proud at exactly one-hundred-and-seventy-three-centimeters, which he preferred to say with a passion, since saying “just under 5’9”” was, as it sounded, underwhelming. Even at his decidedly average stature, he used to feel proud. He hit this height at around 20, hung onto the hope of a sudden post-puberty growth spurt, then petered out at around 23 when he realized he had worked his body too hard. It was giving up. By 25, it was time. His feet no longer articulated in the same way. His hips were constantly aching and popping. Even his neck, held high in dignity, felt tense and rigid. He looked in the mirror each day to find himself resembling more and more his poor grandfather as he remembered him last--weary, chilled to the bone, and doleful. The six sparkling medals that hung next to his boudoir were freshly polished. Three photos were taped hastily to the mirror: one, Yuri and his grandfather when he was 13; two, Yuri on the podium at his first Grand Prix win; three, another podium picture, this one from 2019. Yuri stood for bronze, Katsudon for gold, and Otabek Altin for the silver.

Yuri’s eyes lingered on that snapshot. It had been a strange year. Viktor’s return to skating was short lived after a knee injury left him feeling crippled and aged. With the playing field quickened as such, Yuri’s morale was low and still managed to clinch the bronze. Kastudon’s wide smile perfectly parabola’d up towards his eyes, which darted off the camera and Yuri knew were staring directly into the eyes of Viktor, on crutches, watching with reverent jealousy. Yuri and Altin shared a glance in the photograph. Otabek, his face turned fully towards Yuri, holding his silver in his hands with poise; and Yuri, his face just slightly tilted towards his competitor, but eyes locked and trusting, even a small smile played across his mouth.

Yuri frowned. He never really gave much thought to the photographs. But the ache in his toes was worse today. Perhaps a reminder of his success would spark determination.

It was nearly noon. He looked out the window at the grey October sky. St. Petersburg looked back at him like an expectant lover. Each church spire, every slatted house-top, even the modern buildings in the distance smiled and winked at him. Mocked him. If he were still fifteen, he thought, he would scoff at the view and pump himself up. But here he was, alone in his modest apartment, and the only comforting thing was the seductive glare of the city he hated to love.

After a quick shower, Yuri checked his his phone. Three new texts, one voicemail, and ten emails. He quickly scanned the texts--they were all from one group message that Katsudon had sent. It read:

 **Katsudon  
** **Hey!! (´• ω •`)ﾉ Miss you guys! Almost ten years since Barcelona!!  
  
** Even after ten years, Katsuki still used those stupid Japanese ASCII faces. Someone had responded first, a number that Yuri assumed was Phichit.

 **Unknown number  
** **THats crazy!! I miss you guys!!  
** **  
**The third text was from Chris.

 **Chris G skater  
  Miss you guys xoxoxo  
**  
Yuri quickly scrolled through to see to whom else Katsudon had sent the text. Three unknown numbers (one probably Phichit), Chris, Viktor, and Yuri himself. The other numbers were probably JJ and Otabek. Why Katsuki would hold on to those guys’ numbers was beyond Yuri. He closed the text group and threw off his towel. He quickly set the voicemail to play on speaker as he got dressed.

The message began.

“ _Hey, Yuri, it’s Mila. Hope you’re well. Haven’t heard from you in… well, anyway. I just wanted to let you know that Yakov passed away last night--_ ”

Yuri stopped what he was doing, mid shirt. He turned to face the phone.

“ _\--didn’t know if you knew, but he was pretty sick. Colon cancer. Figure I should call and let you know. We’re having a memorial service at his house on October 25th. In a week. We’d love to see you there, maybe you can say a few words about working with him. Anyway,_ ” --there was some noise in the background, sounded like children’s voices-- “ _talk to you soon, I hope._ ” The message cut off.

The silence after Mila’s voice cut out was staggering. Yuri didn’t know what to feel. He hadn’t spoken to Yakov since he cut off ties with him when he was 20. Teenage angst and the like. Yakov had moved on to other skaters, and Yuri, hopping from coach to coach, fell deeper into his depression. Now, staring at the cell phone lying plaintively on the bed, he was at a loss. He finished slipping the t-shirt on over his head. Cueing up the visual voicemail again, he decided to keep the message. He would call Mila back later.

While the voicemail was playing, he had silently received two more text messages.

 **Unknown number  
  REUNION PARTY!!!! Come to Quebec and let’s do it!!!  
  
** **Viktor  
  xoxo  
  
**The first was obviously JJ. Viktor, Yuri knew, felt weird being a part of this text chain. His demeanor had changed since he was coaching Katsudon in 2016. No doubt the two of them were lying in bed right then, nestled comfortably in Hasetsu, feeling sorry for themselves. Even after so much success--Yuri rolled his eyes.

The last recipient, still un-texting, was probably Otabek, Yuri decided. A twinge of guilt struck him. Ten years ago, he thought, was when Otabek had tried to strike up a friendship with Yuri. It worked. During both the short program and the free skate, Yuri and Otabek felt supportive and enlightened by each other, and then the banquet was full of stolen laughter and chiding gossip. But when it came time to return to practice, Otabek’s characteristic silence and Yuri’s indifference to emotion turned the relationship belly up. A few more years of rekindling and re-rekindling each time they competed, and they were exhausted. Otabek reached out a few times, but Yuri, teenaged and furtive, barely responded. He would never forget the final text he received from Altin:

 **Otabek Altin  
  Good luck with your career.  
**   
Yuri never got a text from him again, though he never tired to reach out either. Friendship was too difficult, especially from country to country. He couldn’t even sustain a friendship with the fellow skaters at his home rink. Several phones later (most broken due to being thrown), Yuri no longer had Otabek’s number. Maybe, Yuri assumed from his silence, Otabek didn’t want to be a part of the text chain because of Yuri’s presence. He decided to text everyone back.

 **You  
** **Happy almost-10 year.  
**  
He sent it, then immediately typed out another:

**You  
  My coach from back then just passed away. Service is in a week. Feeling old yet?**

Yuri felt like a downer immediately after sending it, but it was too late. A few more texts came in after that while he ate breakfast, mostly Katsudon sending sad faces and Phichit with long-winded condolences, but then his phone rang. It was Viktor calling.

Yuri answered with a mouth full of cereal. “Hello.”

Viktor’s voice was stoic and level. “ _Yurio. Is it true?_ ”

Yuri swallowed. “Yeah,” he paused, “sorry you had to find out this way. Mila just called me last night about it. I haven’t even talked to her yet.” Viktor might have been crying because he didn’t say anything. “The service is October 25th, apparently. Want to come?”

Still silence, but Yuri could hear his breathing. Steady and level. Even through tears.

Yuri continued: “I’m sure Mila and everyone would appreciate you being there. Bring Katsudon as well--I’d like to see him.”

Viktor made a small chuckle, and said simply: “ _I’ll see what I can do._ ”

“Let me know.”

Yuri was about to hang up, but Viktor continued, slightly more chipper than before. “ _Can’t believe it’s been ten years, right? Weird to hear from everyone in that group that Yuuri made._ ”

Yuri grunted in-between milky spoonfuls.

“ _I kind of like JJ’s idea about meeting up in Quebec. We could all use a party._ ”

“We hated JJ back then.”

“ _No, Yurio, you did._ ”

“Well, I was right to.” Viktor giggled. Yuri could hear Katsuki speaking in rapid Japanese in the background.

“ _Let’s stay in touch better, Yuri._ ” Yuri’s eyebrows raised. Viktor never used his real name. “ _Yuuri and I would love to make sure you’re doing well. We worry about you._ ”

A small fire rose up in Yuri’s throat, but he quelled it. “Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

“ _Such a grown up. I miss you being fifteen. Kept me on my toes!_ ” Yuri grunted, which cued Viktor to wrap up with a laugh. “ _Yuuri says hi! Maybe I’ll see you next week. Yuuri and I may be able to get some time off._ ”

Both men clicked their phones off.

Yuri stared at his phone in his hand for a few moments. Why was the past coming to get him so quickly today? He absentmindedly scrolled through his emails. One from Mila about the service, three from online stores selling shit to him, five from skating news outlets that Yuri never bothered to open anymore. One last email, with two threads attached to it, remained. The newest message had just come about three minutes ago. Sender: O. A. That was all. Curious, Yuri opened it.

**Yuri,**

**Katsuki’s message got me thinking about you. I don’t like being a part of those message chains. Happy ten year gold-iversary.**

**Otabek  
**  
His heart skipped an anxious beat. The next thread was simpler.  
**  
Yuri,**

**Sorry to hear about Yakov.**

**O  
**  
Otabek, after all these years, was writing him. Yuri remembered his clipped but complimentary tone from when he was fifteen, but this was different. Otabek was unsure, without his footing. He definitely thought Yuri hated him. Yuri clicked on the avatar for the email address. It was a blurry picture of Otabek on the podium.

The same picture that Yuri had on his mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

His thumbs were dextrous.

**You  
  I’ll be there. I invited Viktor and Katsuki, hope you don’t mind**

****The message rattled off in quick strokes. Yuri stared blankly at the screen before he sent the message off to Mila. He knew she would appreciate it, both the message and his presence.

Yakov, really dead, he thought. It seemed impossible. That old man could’ve lived forever, torturing the next generations of skaters. Then again, that’s what he thought about his grandfather as well. Yet day after day, his back curved further, his smile lines deepened, his hands shook more. The final days when he was in hospice were hard to recall. Most of the time Yuri had spent by his grandfather’s bedside, practically begging to the God that he didn’t care if existed or not to spare his grandfather’s life. Yet it was selfish, and Yuri knew it then, and it stuck with him. He was being selfish. He had always been selfish. 

He rattled his head around to dispel the thoughts. Why was he thinking about his grandfather? That was years ago. And Yakov didn’t remind him of his grandfather at all. Perhaps it was the stupid group text making him think about ten years ago. How good things were and he didn’t even know it. 

Yuri, sitting at his kitchen table with just the diffused sunlight pouring in the spacious window, absentmindedly scrolled through the group text.  
  


**Phichit C skater  
  I would LOVE LOVE LOVE that JJ!!! We should all totally come visit!!**

**Katsudon  
  Yes! I would love that. Viktor too~~**

******Phichit C skater  
  WHat’s the xexact date? I want to make thsi happen!!!!!!!!!!!**

******JJ skater  
  December 26? Pretty sure it was the day after Christmas**

******JJ skater  
  Isabelle and I were gone out in Barcelona on Christmas to celebrate and we ran into your engagement party**

******JJ skater  
  The next day was the final, wasn’t it?**

******Katsudon  
** **No, two days after! There were two days of events**

******Phichit C skater  
  So December 27!**

**Chris G skater  
  What a fun new Years that would be**

******Chris G skater  
  I would love to explore montreal, see what’s up there  
  
**

****Yuri couldn’t take anymore of this nonsense. He quickly scanned the whole thing. Mostly Phichit, a bit of JJ, but still no Otabek. The emails sat in his inbox (along with the long detailing of the service Mila had sent him). What should he respond? He had no clue, no way of telling if it even warranted a response. He doubted that Otabek would fly all the way to Canada for a reunion with people he barely cared about, and besides, would Yuri even go if they organized something? He could just imagine watching Phichit, whom he could barely picture ten years older, cheerfully sauntering down the streets of Old Montreal, Katsudon on arm. Yuuri he had seen recently; Viktor was celebrating his 35th birthday and paid (yes, _paid_ ) for Yuri to fly over to Japan to see them. The Katsuki family was happy as all hell to receive him as their guest. His Japanese was shit-poor by that point, but they loved him all the same. Relaxing under the stars in silence as Katsudon and Viktor teased and prodded each other nearby was… well, Yuri wouldn’t’ve admitted it before, but it reminded him of the happiest times of his life. 

Maybe he would go. He would think about it. Only if he didn’t have to do any of the planning.

 

 

Mila was coming over to his place soon. He wasn’t sure why he agreed to it, but when she called him back instead of just texting him in response, he felt obligated to concede. She was a bit weepy, different than how her message sounded--in control, unpanicked, and frank. When she arrived at Yuri’s doorstep, her eyeliner was smudged and she didn’t have any lipstick on. This was unusual for her.

In the past ten years, Mila had gotten married to some dope who worked at the rink, had three kids and two miscarriages. Yuri only knew this because of Instagram. Mila became one of those proud mothers who, for better or for worse, wanted to dispel misconceptions about pregnancy and stillbirth. Given her moderate following from her skating days, people ate it up. No doubt she educated and converted a few people with her pictures of ultrasounds and long-winded odes to angels. The last two years her internet presence had slowed down. Yuri learned pretty quickly that it was because she was taking care of Yakov. 

“It was the worst near the end, obviously,” she said, smoking a cigarette out of the window, “Did you gets my texts? Maybe three months ago.” Yuri shook his head. “I was trying to tell you to come see him. Didn’t know how much longer he would be around.” Her brow furrowed and she took a particularly long drag from the cigarette to quell her emotion. 

“You really… loved him,” Yuri cautiously stated. 

She chuckled. “Nah. I was indebted to him. This was the ultimate payment. Being his stand-in daughter one more time.” The rosebud was nearing her red, chipped-polished fingernails, so she flicked it out of the window onto the street below. “I guess maybe I got attached. I wouldn’t call that love.”

Yuri wanted to say he was sorry, but that would have just been for her sake. He wasn’t sorry he hadn’t been there. He wasn’t really feeling much of anything for the situation, save for maybe a bit of relief. He wouldn’t let Mila know that, though. “How’s Lilia?” 

“Fine. I mean. You remember what happened after you won back in 2016.” 

Yuri did remember, but never thought about it because Yakov’s problems shouldn’t be his own. Besides, the two had been divorced before, so why would they think working together again was a good idea?

“Yuri,” Mila began, “are you alright?” Her eyes were telling. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Shit had changed between them. Mila couldn’t be the teasing flirt she used to be. Yuri was bigger than her, albeit barely. He was more decorated than her as a skater. He even was more beautiful than her.

“I’m fine, Mila.” Yuri bit his cheek.

Mila stared at the kitchen table for a few moments. Faux granite. Aluminum base. It looked expensive but it wasn’t. Her hand grazed the ripples in the marbled pattern. She ran a hand through her long, red hair and looked up at Yuri. “Don’t you have any friends?”

Yuri let the silence answer for him.

“Yuri. If you need to talk to me. I mean.” She cursed under her breath. “Whatever happened to that cute guy from Barcelona? Otabek. Right?”

Yuri felt that twinge in his gut, the same from earlier.

“We don’t talk anymore.”

“You guys were friends.”

“Were. Yeah.”

Mila frowned. She looked at her watch. “I need to go soon. Can I use your restroom? I feel like I look a little messy.”

“Where are you going now? Going to bother more people about Yakov?”

Without missing a beat, Mila said, “I’m going to his place to pick up some of Yakov’s things.”

“And you need to look better for that why?”

Mila rolled her eyes. “Come on, Yuri. Do you want to come?”

“What? Why?”

“Yakov has some things you might want. Like. Photo albums and records and… I don’t know. I could also use the help. And the company.”

“Sorry, hard pass.”

Mila pursed her lips and forced them into a thin smile. She had prepared for this response. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”

She excused herself and left Yuri sitting at the kitchen table. He reached over and grabbed his tablet off of the counter. He opened his emails. The one from Mila was easily dealt with, straight into the archive. Otabek’s two threads still sat there. He pulled them up.

 

 **Sorry to hear about Yakov.**  

**O**

 

He pressed the reply button. A blank email spooled up. 

**Otabek--**

No, too formal. He could hear Mila sniffling in the bathroom.

**Hey,**

Too informal? Cut the difference--

**Hey, Otabek.**

That works.

**I’m**

Yuri stopped his fingers after that word. What was he about to type?

**I’m sorry**

No, no, no… this wasn’t working. Not like this. He backspaced and began again.

**Hey, Otabek.**

**Thanks for the message. Mila is here now in the bathroom crying. Remember her? I haven’t seen her in a while. Though it’s been longer since I’ve seen yo**

He had to stop. Erase that bit, not necessary.

**I haven’t seen her in a while. It’s good to reconnect sometimes.**

**I knew you wouldn’t reply to the messages. It was very “you.” I think the Japanese have a phrase for that. Sasuga Otabek. Something like that. Katsudon taught me that ages ago when we were talking about Viktor being naked all the time. Just like good ol’ Viktor.**

Fuck, he thought, this was getting long. Mila was running the sink. Better hurry up.

 **Anyway, I’m thinking that it might be fun to go to Canada. I still don’t want to see JJ but it might be worth it if people like you and**  

No.

**Anyway, I’m thinking it might be fun to go to Canada even if it is JJ. Maybe I’ll see you there.**

**Y**

Was that good? Was it a solid response? Yuri had never had to salvage a friendship before. And yet here he was, accomplishing just that twice in one day. Just as he was about to erase the last part and make it something a bit less desperate, Mila emerged from the restroom looking a bit fresher than before. Her makeup was less erratic. Yuri put down the tablet with one hand and turned to face her. She smiled. 

“Thanks for having me over, Yuri. It means a lot that you’re going to come next week.”

He had to swallow his pride. “Of course, Mila.”

“Come show me out? I have something I want to give you." 

Yuri grabbed his keys and walked Mila down the single flight of stairs to the ground floor. She was rifling through her purse looking for something. Then she produced a single, thin envelope just as she reached the door.

“For you. From Yakov. I kind of knew you didn’t want to come help me so I brought this just in case I couldn’t convince you.” She also brought out a small pad of blush and applied some lackadaisically to her cheeks. “I don’t know what’s in it. I tried to hold it up to the light to see, but I think it’s just a piece of paper. Too hard to decipher.”

“Thanks.” Yuri snatched the envelope from Mila’s hands. She gave him a pathetic smile, a small, awkward half-hug, and then walked down the street and around the corner. The grey St. Petersburg sky was still there, mocking Yuri, mimicking his mood.

“Fuck off,” he spat into the sky.

Yuri trudged back up the stairs to his apartment, opened the door, and tossed the envelope onto the entryway table. Didn’t want to think about what that could be, didn’t care. Probably an emotional letter saying Yuri was the son he never had, blah blah blah. Yuri went back to the kitchen table, ready to edit down his email to a more Otabek-suiting response.

When he got to the tablet, the email wasn’t on the screen anymore. He scrolled up and down, confused. He had no drafts. Didn’t see anything in his trash. There it was again, that twinge. Way down in his gut.

He looked at the threads Otabek had sent him. There was a third, and it was his own unedited email.

**Hey, Otabek.**

**Thanks for the message. Mila is here now in the bathroom crying. Remember her?** **I haven’t seen her in a while. It’s good to reconnect sometimes.**

**I knew you wouldn’t reply to the messages. It was very “you.” I think the Japanese have a phrase for that. Sasuga Otabek. Something like that. Katsudon taught me that ages ago when we were talking about Viktor being naked in the hot springs. Just like good ol’ Viktor.**

**Anyway, I’m thinking it might be fun to go to Canada even if JJ will be there. Maybe I’ll see you there.**

**Yulip ptt]]\=**

His fingers must have brushed the keyboard of the tablet as he placed it down and then pressed send. He scrambled. Was he able to undo it? he wondered. No such luck, it was already sent. Otabek was no doubt reading it just then since it was three hours later in Kazakhstan. How long had it been since it sent? The ticker read five minutes. And nothing back from Otabek.

Humiliation set in. It was a rare one for Yuri. How would he ever face Otabek in person? If that ever happened. He quickly ran over to his phone, which was still in his bedroom, to see if anything had happened in the meantime. Six messages.

 

**Mila  
  Thanks, Yuri**

**Mila  
  ???**

**Mila  
  Outside**

**Mila  
** **I’m on my way**

 

Just from Mila, there were four. The group chat pinged that there were two practically brand-new messages. The newest took up the whole screen because an image of a cartoon dog celebrating was attached.  
  


**Viktor  
  What a surprise!! Looking forward xoxoxo**

**  
**And the message just before that:  
 

**Unknown number  
  Let me know what you guys decide. Could be fun. -O**

 

 

 

Three days had passed since Otabek had finally responded to the group text chain. Yuri still felt awkward and couldn’t bring himself to contribute, but he wasn’t quite sure why. Was it the guilt over a failed friendship? Maybe it was because Otabek hadn’t sent a response to Yuri’s awkward email yet. No matter the reason, something was bugging Yuri about the whole situation that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Each day had been the same. Wake up, pretend to stretch, and slowly make himself breakfast. Text with Mila about preparations (that he had somehow gotten drawn into), make lunch. Go for a walk. The rest became hazy. Not that the beginning wasn’t hazy, too. Yuri was still complacent as ever. Though the social energy from Mila, despite revolving around their former coach’s death, was invigorating. Yuri felt a bit more alive. It was only two hours each morning that it took him to get out of bed. As far as he was concerned, that made this week a success.

Yuri hadn’t heard from Viktor and Katsudon since a few days before about whether or not they could make it to St. Petersburg for the memorial service. Mila, grief-stricken and desperate for friendly faces, told Yuri to just text them the address and the info for the 25th. Yuri lazily sent off the invitation into the group text.

 

**You  
  That’s the address for the funeral shit. for Katsuki and viktor. Be there at 16:00 if you want to make Mila happy**

**You  
  havent heard from you guys so I assume that you won’t make it which is fine. Mila wanted me to send it to you**

  
He stared at the screen, expecting a response immediately. Katsudon was always on his phone. At least he used to be. And he was right, two messages came in instantly.

 

**Phichit C skater  
  Ohhhhxhh I wish I could come Yuri!!! Would be nice to support you**

**Katsudon  
  Thanks Yurio ** **(っ´ω`)ﾉ(╥ω╥)**

Still no concrete answer. Mila wouldn’t be happy, but Yuri wouldn’t care. Katsudon and Viktor could do what they wanted. 

Two more days went by. The service would be on Sunday, and the Friday afternoon air that hung heavy around the windows of Yuri’s apartment didn’t deter Mila from becoming a reminder of her former self.

“Let’s go out, Yuri.”

He laughed at first. It wasn’t full laughter, not like the free childlike mirth he felt with his grandfather, but it was nice to feel anything of the sort again. Even at the expense of Mila.

She whined. “I haven’t been out in forever. Nikolai doesn’t want to dance, he’s too serious. The kids are with my parents tonight. It’s Friday!” She draped her arms around Yuri’s shoulders just like she used to. “We’re going to need the positive energy with the service coming up on Sunday.”

“No,” Yuri said as he peeled her arms off of him, “ _you’re_ going to need the positive energy. _I_ don’t care.”

Mila pouted. “I bet you can meet someone. How long has it been since you got laid?” Yuri shot her a punitive look. “There are some cute boys here in St. Petersburg.”

He considered this. It was true, he hadn’t been laid in a while. But why did Mila care?

“I don’t care to get laid.”

“Then do it for me.”

As he turned his face to Mila, she met his glance with a hearty smile. Yuri hadn’t seen that seductive face in forever. She looked genuinely happy again; not even several Instagram filters could create that kind of demeanor. He nodded his head solemnly.

 

They met up again later that night. The club that Mila chose was on the other side of town from his apartment, so Yuri hopped in a rideshare five minutes before they were supposed to meet and texted her “ **heading out be there soon sorry** ” in a rush. It took fifteen minutes to get there, fifteen minutes of Yuri staring blankly out of the car window watching the pale leafless trees whiz by in brown and grey blurs. Mila was already inside when Yuri arrived. He didn’t even say goodbye to his driver, but through the app on the phone, tipped generously. It was only money, after all. What else was he going to use it for? 

He ducked inside the club. He’d gotten used to the sight. After he turned 18 and kept winning medals, the banquet parties turned into after-parties turned into all night raves and ragers. It was never his scene. Christophe Giacometti had gotten him to come out maybe three or four times total. Watching him wiping Molly-laden sweat from his brow as he stalked his next sexual partner wasn’t Yuri’s ideal two-hours-after-midnight. After a long day of skating, or even a long week, he was ready to be in bed with ice packs on his swollen ankles.

This place wasn’t so bad. It was quieter than he expected, but Mila probably chose it for that reason. She was almost thirty, had three kids… Yuri shuddered at the thought. Mila waved to him from across the bar and beckoned Yuri to come towards her. She had two drinks. Yuri weaved his way gracefully through the crowd, glad for his small-to-average stature as he ducked under reaching arms and swiveled around laughing groups of women. He finally came to rest where Mila was seated. She handed him a drink.

“To Yakov,” she said.

“You don’t waste any time, huh?”

They clinked their glasses and drank. Mila was already halfway done with hers. Yuri sipped on what he assumed was a vodka soda--something frilly without the frills. Mila was too delicate for drinks she considered “masculine,” but would rather die than be caught drinking an appletini.

They drank in silence for about ten minutes. Yuri surveyed the room--none of the cute boys that Mila had promised. But he could feel the vodka sitting pretty at the bottom of his fairly empty stomach. He had managed to stuff a pirozhki in his mouth at around 18:00, but hours later, the alcohol felt like a jelly snaking its way into his veins. Mila smiled at him.

“Look who just came in.”

Yuri looked over to the door. It was Georgi. He looked pretty much the same. The two of them had crossed paths for years, so the age that Georgi had put on was not surprising to Yuri. He was in his mid-thirties, looking slightly greyed, but still as intense as ever. He had a small woman on his arm. Yuri had never seen her before, but it was no doubt some new girlfriend of his.

“I hear he’s still trying to win Anya back. She’s married.”

Yuri whistled sarcastically. Mila giggled.

“Remember that meltdown?”

Yuri turned to her. “No. What? What meltdown?”

Her eyes got wide. “You don’t remember? Georgi totally went nuts. That friend of yours booted him off the podium in what was gonna be his last season. That guy, uh, Otabek. I think Yuuri Katsuki got the gold, Emil got silver, and then Otabek and Georgi were separated by like, four tenths of a point.” She downed the rest of her drink. “Georgi lost it on him. That’s why he quit, you know. Yakov was pissed.” Her face contorted slightly. Her fingers unconsciously began rummaging through her clutch for a cigarette. “I remember, Otabek was so cool and collected. It was awesome.”

Yuri did remember Otabek beating Georgi. He remembered being in the stands for Mila, and seeing Otabek from a distance. Georgi had skated well past his prime, so at that point, Otabek and Yuri were no longer friends. He could’ve sworn Otabek looked up at Yuri from the podium. He felt their eyes connect. But maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe it was too far of a distance. It was blurry. He was making it up.

Yuri swallowed hard. He pulled his phone out as Georgi swept past them, Mila waving an awkward hello. Yuri had a new email. Sender: O. A.

Rather than panic, Yuri stood up and excused himself to the restroom. Mila rolled her eyes and called the bartender over for another round. 

Yuri went and sat in a stall before opening the email. He could hear the bass from the music vibrating the cheap plastic door of the toilet cubicle. Perched awkwardly on the disgusting toilet, he scrolled down into the email.

 

 **Yulip? That’s new.**  

 

Yuri couldn’t help but smile.

 

 **Sorry to hear it’s been hard on you and Mila. She was always good people.**  

**O**

 

Yuri blinked. That was it? It was so short, so curt. Yuri assumed his message had at least opened the door for longer, more detailed conversation, but here Otabek was, clipped as ever. He must have really hated Yuri. 

He sat for a while longer in the bathroom stall, dizzy and heartbroken. If he couldn’t even successfully rekindle this friendship, what was he doing out with Mila?

He rose, closed the stall door behind him, slipped the phone into his front pocket and rushed to the mirror. He spat once into the sink, splashed some water on his face, and dried himself off with his sleeve. Mila was waiting.

On his way back to the bar where Mila was waiting, Georgi gave him a little half-wave. Yuri nodded his head back at him. He felt awkward, like he was commiserating with the enemy. He stopped his thoughts. Enemy? What was he thinking of?

He slipped back into the seat next to Mila and sighed. Mila looked to him.

“You look like shit.”

Yuri chuckled.

“You too.”

They let a pause ring out between them. The sound of people drinking and socializing filled their ears, pounding and deafening them. Mila began to smile. Yuri couldn’t help himself. He lazily let his lips curve into a grin, laughing under his breath. Mila nudged him with her shoulder.

He felt like he hadn’t in years. He felt like he did in the hot springs with Katsudon. He felt like he did with his grandfather and his old cats watching TV and eating dinner. He felt like he did sitting with Otabek in foreign cafes. He felt like he had friends.


	3. Chapter 3

Yuri missed wearing leotards. Yakov and his subsequent coaches stopped giving them to him as costumes once puberty had reared its ugly, acne-covered head. His more muscular frame no longer complimented the stretchy fabric. His bulge was too masculine. Long gone were the days of androgyny. When Yuri noticed the true first signs of pubic hair, he panicked. Yakov had to peel him off of his laptop, kicking and screaming like a toddler, trying to purchase hormone blockers online. Despite how comfortable Yuri was with the idea of sex, not being engaged with it gave him control over it. Suddenly his body was conceived, pregnant with testosterone, and patches of hair were sprouting where Yuri wanted them the least.

Yakov had worried that Yuri was transgender. Yuri cried when they approached him about it. His fears, his insecurity, it was all linked to a career that he knew was going to implode as soon as he was no longer marketable.

Yuri, at that age, was smarter than he was given credit. It was like he had predicted the future. Granted, the stake in Yuri’s coffin was his rampant inability to stop pushing himself when his body wasn’t prepared for it, but indeed, the Yuri’s Angels stopped stalking, the interviewers stopped calling; all in all, the limelight ceased to exist for Plisetsky as soon as he was actually a man. Yuri wished that he was transgender. At times, his self-consciousness bled over into a hatred of the female. It was little lashes out at Mila. Putting down the younger female rinkmates. Dismissing all of the women whom Yakov brought on to be his new choreographers. He envied them for their mastery of _agape_. Of the soft and delicate.

Standing on podiums, he would look left and right at the men around him. Katsudon, though Yuri always imagined him doughy and filled with pork, was as lean and svelte as ever. Chris was constantly at the gym and proudly wore his v-neck shirts showing off his trimmed chest hair proudly. Even Otabek, though he was short when Yuri knew him, oozed masculinity in his cool, frank demeanor. How could he be like them? He wasn’t ready to be compared to his peers. Not as a man.

Yet there he was, no longer in leotards. Twenty-five years old, unhappy, cold as the winter was long, and sitting in a suit. Mila was at his side, fixing the only black dress she owned that, unfortunately, happened to be too short. Yakov’s extended family, who, honestly, hardly knew Yakov as well as Mila did, eyed her with pious judgement. She fidgeted with and stretched down her hem as far as it would go, but it wouldn’t even reach her knees. Yuri nudged her.

“Stop. It makes it look worse.”

Mila still wasn’t used to Yuri being on her side, but she let the thin fabric relax and snake its way back up to her mid-thigh. She whispered to Yuri, “I’m just going to sit here for the rest of the afternoon. I’m so fucking ashamed. If I need anything, can you get up to get it for me?”

Yuri rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. She smiled.

“Thanks, friend.”

Yuri hardly knew any of the people around them. He imagined that Mila had met most of them while she was caring for Yakov, but even then, introductions were abundant. Mila was learning new names, studying faces she thought she recognized, and Yuri remained next to her, bombarded with compliments ten years too late. He kept his mouth shut most of the time, feigning distress, when really Yuri wanted to leave. Even St. Petersburg, that magical city, was laughing in his face. The sun shone brightly through the tall windows of Yakov’s estate. A day that didn’t belong to Yuri and the clouds cleared away. It made him more angry than he desired.

While Mila chatted with one of the guests, Yuri heard some noise at the refreshment table. He looked over. Viktor was there, looking glum. Upon his arrival at the event, he had made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about skating in any professional context. Or maybe it was that he didn’t want to talk at all. Yuri noticed the quiet shift when he picked Viktor up at the airport. Even after his skating decline, Viktor was never a reserved person. Yuri didn’t think he heard Viktor say a single word yet at the party.

Yuri excused himself from Mila and the relative’s company and darted over to where Viktor was eyeing the pirozhkis.

“Viktor.”

Viktor turned his head to look at who was addressing him. He smiled.

“Yurio. Hi.”

“You doing OK?”

“My, my, what a gracious host you’ve become.” He laughed. “I think I know my way around here better than you. Yakov was my coach longer than he was yours.”

Viktor was nearing forty. The lines around his eyes were pronounced and signature. There were strands of white hair that stood out like blemishes in the sea of silver. Viktor embraced age with grace. His descent from skating, not so much.

“Are you going to say something later, Yurio?”

“That’s your job, old man.”

Viktor laughed. “Why don’t we both speak. I’m sure Mila will, too. And Georgi.”

“Georgi’s not here.”

For a moment, Viktor was confused. It dawned on him in a few moments. “Oh, the bronze debacle.”

“I only recently heard about it. Mila told me. I guess I only knew Otabek’s side.”

Viktor gave an affirmative hum. He looked straight into Yuri’s eyes. “Yuri, this is a big deal. I hope you don’t take this lightly.”

Yuri balked. “Y-you’re talking about Yakov, right? Of course I’m taking this seriously! He’s dead!”

Yuri, louder than he intended, gestured a small apology at those around him.

“I am talking about Yakov. He was the most successful Russian coach in recent years. Maybe in history.” Viktor slid a finger around the rim of a parfait glass. “You and I are his greatest work. We need to make sure to treat him with respect here.”

“Thank God Georgi isn’t here, then.”

“Yes, thank God, but there are some people that are probably just as scandalized that you’re here.”

Yuri lifted his face to meet Viktor. He was right. Looking around, he felt the eyes on him. He may not know these people, and it may be an intimate gathering for family, but still, the vendetta against him for spurning Yakov when he was seventeen was aggressive.

He gave Viktor a knowing nod and then changed the subject. “Sorry that Katsudon couldn’t come.”

“He’s sorry, too.” Viktor finally picked up the whole parfait. “The food is good. Yakov certainly knew how to eat.”

Yuri smiled and excused himself. He ducked into the bathroom; he needed a moment of privacy. The small washroom just off of the main hallway was perfect for that. Yuri sat on the pristine toilet, ignoring his haggard reflection in the mirror, and pulled out his phone. The perfect escape.

 

**Phichit C Skater**

**Yuuuuuuriiiiiiiiiiiii**

 

**Phichit C Skater**

**Talk to meeeeeeeee**

 

**Phichit C Skater**

**Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!**

 

**Unknown number**

**There are other people in this message chain.**

 

**Phichit C skater**

**Ahhhh!! Sorrryr!! I Just wnted to talkto Yuuri**

 

Yuri muted the conversation. There was nothing left to learn from it. If a real reunion happened, Katsudon or Viktor would tell him about it. Or maybe even…

Otabek’s latest email still sat in his inbox. He pulled it up and moved the screen up and down with his thumb, pretending there was more to see.

 

 **Yulip? That’s new.**  

**Sorry to hear it’s been hard on you and Mila. She was always good people.**

**O**

 

If he quickly shifted the email back and forth, it seemed like there was more to read. But why did that matter? Otabek and he hadn’t been close in years. Surely there were more important things to fantasize over, to obsess about, but no matter what he did, Yuri couldn’t get his mind to shift away from Otabek’s curt correspondence. Should he reply? There was probably no worth in doing so. Otabek may have reached out first, but such a distant message didn’t warrant a response. Now he was there telling off Phichit in a text message? Yuri had no reason to want to defend Phichit. Why would he? But he found himself getting angry, feeling jilted, ignored…

He could hear Mila’s voice in the main room halting the conversations around her and signaling to start the “story time” section. Yuri hated this part. At his grandfather’s funeral, he was the only one who spoke. Who else would? Only a few distant relatives came anyway. Yuri had spent most of that funeral with his cat, who then decided to die on him three months later.

Yuri cautiously opened the door. He caught Mila’s eyes from down the hallway and she gave a discreet beckoning motion to him. He sulked over into the parlor.

“Yakov was truly a wonderful coach. He was like a father to me.” Mila smelled like cigarettes. More than usual. Her speech was canned, absolutely fake, and Yuri would’ve laughed if he had not felt sorry for her. He understood. “Losing him is such a… such a loss for the entire skating community here in St. Petersburg, in Russia… in the world. I know many of you have known him longer than I, and I thank you for sharing your stories with me today. Remembering him as he was in his happiest moments with us is exactly how I want to immortalize him in my memory. Thank you for coming.”

There was scattered applause; no one was sure what the appropriate reaction was. A few older female relatives grabbed Mila’s arm in a show of comfort as she walked by. Yuri was amazed. Mila had truly become a daughter to that family.

The floor was silent for a moment, and then Viktor stepped in. Without so much as an introduction, he began. “Yakov and I once drank and argued all night. It was after I had quit. I was back in St. Petersburg visiting some colleagues and I ran into him at a bar near the Bronze Horseman. He was red in the face and didn’t recognize me when I walked in. Maybe… maybe I’ve aged.” Various people chucked and shushed him politely. Leave it to Viktor, Yuri thought, to make it about himself.

“Anyway,” he continued, “We got to talking about skating, about life, about love, and he told me how inadequate he felt. How he was sure that his skaters, myself, Mila, and Yuri, and all of the others, too, how his skaters were overshadowing him. How he was upset that he didn’t get more credit for the way he worked us or the time he spent caring for us like a parent would.” Viktor’s eyes were shimmering. Not as if he were crying, but as if he were listening to a song that he remembered from his childhood. “I didn’t know whether to crack a joke or to console him. I ended up doing both.” People chuckled. “I bought him another drink, carried him home, and left feeling like a bigger man. Yakov was good at that. Through his rage, his drunkenness, his… strict teaching style… Yakov always let us feel like we were better than him. He practically begged us to challenge him. It was his strength and his downfall. So. I thank him for that.” Viktor raised the glass in his hand, a half-eaten parfait. People around him, sniffling, raised their glasses of vodka and spirits and joined Viktor in celebrating Yakov’s life. Viktor looked at Yuri, smiling. You shithead, Yuri thought, now I have to follow _that_.

Eyes began shifting onto Yuri before he even made it clear that he was going to speak. He looked around at the expectant, judgemental eyes. Mila had such a generic speech, Viktor told an anecdote, what was he left with? he thought. He cleared his throat.

“I’m… I’m Yuri Plisetsky. In case you didn’t know. I was Yakov’s student until around 2018… I think. I was…” He paused, looking around. Specifically at Viktor, for guidance. His face was blank. He swirled the parfait in figure eights with his spoon. “Yakov was a difficult coach to work with, but he helped me win gold at my senior debut. If that says anything about him.” People around Yuri looked satisfied, but cautious of his words. “I was a petulant little shit. Sorry. I was a petulant kid. I was annoying, bratty, untrusting, and defiant. I think Viktor is right: all of those things made Yakov the perfect coach for me. And I didn’t realize it. He pushed me to my limits, surrounded me with things I hated so that when I fought back, I became my true self. I was perfect,” he swallowed hard, “and I never got to thank him for it. I never got to tell him that he was an amazing coach and that I appreciated the hard work he did for me.” People around Yuri were crying. Mila was crying as well. Why were they all crying? Suddenly, Yuri shifted back into his body from that brief out-of-body elaboration. Yuri’s face was stained with tears. “Sorry.”

Yuri quickly turned on his feet to leave the room. He sped into the study on the left side of the hallway, nearly knocking into a vase filled with tulips. He ran to the front side of the room, threw the window open, and sucked in as much air as he could. He felt like he was hyperventilating. The last time he had been so emotionally bare in front of people was right after his free skate in Barcelona. Those tears, the frustration, it all came out at once. He had to calm himself down. Head sticking out the window, he took in deep, long breaths. The St. Petersburg sky was littered with a few scarce clouds. Mocking him again, he thought. Couldn’t just stay beautiful all day.

Something down on the ground floor caught his eye. A man, dressed all in black wearing a helmet, looking ready to come in for the service, was right outside the building. He was staring up at Yuri who was half sprawled out of a window. At first Yuri thought he was staring because he looked like he was about to jump to his death, but the man quickly averted his gaze when Yuri noticed him and hopped on his motorcycle. Before Yuri could say anything, ask any questions, the engine revved and the man sped away, down the quiet streets of St. Petersburg, leaving a trail of Doppler effect in his wake.

For a moment, Yuri just watched after the warped exhaust of the bike. Mila came in a few seconds later.

“Yuri. Are you OK?”

“Who was that?”

“What? Who?” She looked out the window. She could barely make out the man speeding away on the Yamaha.

“There was a man outside watching me. He got on a bike and left.”

“Oh, yeah. No idea who that was. He came in, actually. Left those tulips that are on the table for Yakov, but then spent most of the time he was here out in the foyer. Didn’t really come in. Never took his motorcycle helmet off. I think he may have been in the doorway for some of your speech.”

A panic washed over Yuri. Without explaining to Mila, he pulled out his phone and dove into the group chat thread. Phichit had sent a few more things, Chris some, JJ one or two, and then he got back to the one that he was looking for. He clicked on it. The details of the text popped up. It was geotagged.

 

**Unknown Number**

**There are other people in this message chain.**

**_(25/10/26 17:32:13 -- St. Petersburg, RU)_ **

  
  
  


The wake was dying down. A few relatives lingered, but hidden away in the office were Yuri, Mila and Viktor. Mila and Viktor were engaged in a lighthearted conversation about their spouses; what was Katsuki up to in his spare time, what Nikolai wasn’t doing right in bed, things that Yuri found benign. Being around them was, however, better than being out there mingling with Yakov’s remaining guests. Besides, Yuri couldn’t concentrate on conversations. He hadn’t told Mila or Viktor why, but courtesy kept him at the Feltsman estate and the two of them were smart enough to let Yuri deal with his emotions himself.

Mila, hearing a lull in the business out in the parlor, ran to the door to check how many guests remained. “It’s just the caterer and Yakov’s sister,” she said, “that old bitch. I’ll see if I can get them to leave.” She disappeared out the doorway.

Viktor was much more willing to pry in one on one situations. “Kiddo,” Viktor crooned, “want to talk about it?”

Yuri scoffed. This prompted a hearty laugh.

“Sorry! Sorry. I shouldn’t condescend. You’re as old as I was when we met, I think. Such a little man.”

Yuri didn’t say anything at first. Viktor let the silence vibrate. Letting Yuri fester in silence was the best way to get him to talk.

“I think Otabek was here.”

Viktor raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“I saw a man speed off on a motorcycle outside. Mila said he dropped off flowers but never took his helmet off. Plus,” Yuri continued as he queued up his texts on his phone, “his texts are geotagged in town.”

“You’re an expert stalker, Yurio.” He paused. “Why didn’t you say hi?”

“We haven’t spoken in years, idiot.” Yuri winced slightly at the habit of insulting his superiors. “I don’t think he likes me anymore.”

“Well, he came all this way. At least try and reach out. Maybe he’ll want to get lunch.” Viktor’s obnoxious smile, heart shaped and all too sincere, melted Yuri’s salty disposition.

“I’m nervous, Viktor.”

For a moment, Viktor was convinced that the young man sitting in front of him was still fifteen. His eyes were pained and untrusting, head resting on his knees and arms wrapped around his shins. A slight pout danced on Yuri’s lips, which he ran over the worn-in fabric of his fitted jeans.

“We’re all nervous sometimes.”

“You aren’t.”

“Of course I get nervous, Yuri.” There was a twinge of anger in Viktor’s voice. It wasn’t Yuri’s intention, to make Viktor upset. He looked straight into the older man’s eyes. They sat there for a moment, quiet and at odds, then Viktor, relaxing into Yakov’s favorite velour armchair, relented.

“Never thought I would sit in this chair. He would’ve hated it.”

“Feels good?” Yuri asked.

“Feels great.” Viktor winked.

Mila returned a few minutes later. The rest of the family had departed, the catering company was paid off, and all was well in the house. They were the only ones left. Mila stated that she was probably going to spend the night in the guest room she had used so very often. Yuri never stayed there when he was growing up. Sharing a space with Yakov (and Lilia, at times) nauseated him. Viktor and she began gossipping again, this time about Yakov and his wives, none of whom decided to show up that day. Yuri pulled his phone out. He had to do it.

 

**You**

**Was that you?**

 

Not in the group chat. Not in an email. A direct text, sent directly to his phone. His heart was racing.

A reply, almost immediately.

 

**Unknown number**

**Sorry**

 

Yuri’s thumbs paused over the keyboard. He typed slowly, deliberately,

 

**You**

**Sorry for what?**

 

Otabek’s response was quick again.

 

**Unknown number**

**Sorry I didn’t say hi**

 

**You**

**Are you still in town?**

 

**Unknown number**

**Leaving soon**

 

Otabek must have felt rushed. He never left out punctuation. Yuri remembered that.

 

**You**

**I’m done with the wake now. Do you want to meet up?**

 

The wait was longer than before. Yuri’s world zeroed in on the phone in his hands.

 

**Unknown number**

**Sure.**

 

**Unknown number**

**I’m staying at the Domina, on the river. Do you know it?**

 

The punctuation comforted Yuri, but the pounding in his chest was still agonizing. A few more texts, and it seemed that Yuri would be leaving soon to go see Otabek for the first time in about six years. He couldn’t remember how to hold conversations. He didn’t remember what to do with his hands while listening to someone all of a sudden. Why was he thinking about that? Otabek wanted to meet up with him in fifteen minutes. Viktor noticed Yuri’s preoccupation.

“What’s going on, Yurio?”

“I’m heading out. I think.”

“What?” Mila butted in. “Where are you going?”

“Is it Otabek?” Viktor asked. Yuri nodded.

Mila gasped. “Was that who was here in the motorcycle gear? Why didn’t he say hi?”

“I don’t know, Mila.” Yuri fidgeted. “I’m supposed to meet him by the river in a few. I can make it if I leave now.”

“Well, go!” Mila smiled as she ordered him off. Yuri let a small smile sneak onto his face and ducked out the door. He swore he could hear Mila say as he rounded the corner; “It’s so good to see him with friends again…”

Yuri nearly threw the front door open, ready to sprint all the way downtown to meet up with his old friend. If he could call him that anymore. Yet instead of being greeted with that difficult St. Petersburg air, Lilia was standing in the doorway, looking stern. She yelped as Yuri nearly tackled her to the ground.

“Yuri Plisetsky!”

He stuttered as he spoke her name. “What are you doing here? The wake is over.”

“I didn’t want to bother his family,” she stated honestly. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“I have to meet a friend.”

She eyed him skeptically. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

“I can’t--”

Mila poked her head through the doorway before Yuri was able to finish. Lilia grabbed Yuri by the wrist and guided him back into the house, shutting the door behind her. Mila, stiff and conservative around Lilia, kept glancing at Yuri to make sure he was OK.

“Yuri, Mila,” Lilia began, “I’m looking for some documents that Yakov had. They’re quite important.”

Mila chewed on her lip a bit. “Pardon me, but that’s very vague, Madam. What kind of papers are they?”

Lilia looked at Yuri. “Neither of you knew about Yakov hiding anything? From me?”

Yuri candidly spoke. “I had barely seen the old guy in five years. I don’t know any of his secrets.” He tried to push past her through the door, but she blocked the way.

“It’s imperative that we find these papers. Now that Yakov is no longer with us, I need to make sure I control these documents. It’s about time that Yakov and I didn’t have any secrets anymore.”

Mila eyed Yuri, confused. He shrugged slightly. Lilia was clearly not going to let him go, and she would throw his phone out the window if he so much as even glanced at the time. She was on a mission. Otabek, he thought, would have to be patient. He always had been. But Yuri had said he would be there in fifteen minutes.

Yuri ducked into a separate room, pretending to be looking for a file cabinet elsewhere, and quickly shot Otabek a text.

 

**You**

**Lilia showed up. She’s holding me captive. Send help**

 

Yuri hoped that the text would dispel the awkwardness. Yuri was literally supposed to be arriving in three minutes. Otabek didn’t respond right away, and Yuri didn’t have enough time to wait for his response. Lilia was rabid that night.

Thirty minutes passed. Thirty long minutes of looking, and Lilia, empty-handed, became cross and demanding. Mila could barely make eye contact with her. She kept darting glances over at Yuri, but he wasn’t sure why. It seemed more urgent than Lilia keeping him from his date. But even then, Yuri had sent a warning text to Otabek. His phone hadn’t buzzed in his pocket. No answer. Viktor, clueless and immune to Lilia’s domineering observance, even managed to peel himself up from the chair that he so desperately wanted. As Yuri and Mila pawed through drawers, Viktor cheerfully spoke about how he was going to have the chair shipped to Hasetsu with him. Mila poignantly smiled at him. Yuri didn’t know what was so special about the chair. There were more important things.

The cabinets and shelves were filled with books, droll non-fiction accounts of wars and stuffy literature from the 19th century. There was hardly any paperwork to speak of. Mila managed to find something that could’ve been what Lilia wanted, but it turned out to be out-dated contracts for Yuri and Mila’s skating education. Yuri looked over his hastily. It didn’t say much, listing his grandfather as his legal guardian. Yuri was only nine when he entered the class.

Lilia resigned herself to sitting in the parlor, making phone calls. She was going to find whatever it was she wanted, but, as Mila had warned Yuri, the apartment was disorganized and required a lot of care. Mila knew where most things were, but no matter how much she advised Lilia that the documents were better left for another day when things had been organized, the matron was insistent that Yuri and Mila, slaves of hers for so many years, were obligated to continue her search.

When the two former skaters turned up empty-handed, Lilia, seething with rage, calmly said, “I expect both of you to be here each day to help me look. I must locate what it is I’m looking for.”

“We don’t know what that is, hag!” Yuri spat at her with his familiar young rage. Lilia was not shocked by this. “How can we find something if you won’t tell us what it is?”

Lilia was beginning to appear fed up. “I will continue this search myself.”

Mila interjected. “Madam, I have a lot of work to do here. Yakov’s things are very precious to me. If I come across anything here that looks important, I will let you know. I promise.”

Mila’s eyes darted over to Yuri’s as she spoke. What could she want?

She wasn’t satisfied, but was probably bored of waiting around. As soon as Lilia turned to leave, Yuri sprinted out the door, practically taking her down with him. It was a fifteen minute walk to the hotel where Otabek was staying, and without any texts back from him, Yuri could only assume that he was still waiting, maybe without a phone with proper internet or texting. His average legs pounded the pavement in quick, succinct beats. The chipped streets threatened to knock Yuri over, but he persevered; he was going to make it to Otabek no matter what.

Yuri arrived out of breath within ten minutes. He was over an hour late. The looming hotel, overlooking the river and downtown St. Petersburg, had few lights on in the upper floors. He didn’t see Otabek anywhere. No texts on his phone. He ran to the front desk and inquired about Altin’s room number. The concierge informed him that Altin had checked out.

Well, of course, Yuri thought, he’s about to leave. Why would he still be at the hotel?

Yuri, frustrated and still breathing heavily, went and sat on a bench overlooking the river. The city lights shimmered on the reflection of the water. Yuri, the second time this evening, suddenly became self-aware. He had no idea what he was doing. Why was he so desperate to see Otabek? This didn’t feel like friendship; it hadn’t for years. Even his newly refreshed camaraderie with Mila didn’t sap this much energy from the young man. Yuri pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. He rattled off a quick note.

 

**You**

**I’m here. I was late. I’m here, though.**

 

He knew that Otabek said he was leaving that night, but why would it be that quickly? And why no texts? He promised himself he would only wait ten more minutes to see if Otabek showed up.

He started going over old messages to pass the time. Looking at the way Otabek seemed to cheer up when Yuri suggested they meet brought a pinch to his gut. He read them over and over. Yuri had never felt this way, not when he was meeting Katsudon, or working alongside Mila--hell, he had never even felt this way when he used to date. All of those boys he had met when he was a skating superstar--not a single one made his stomach lurch, nothing even came close. So what was this?

Thirty minutes later, still sitting on the bench, Yuri brought the text messages. He clicked on the unknown number and began to enter it into his phone. Just as be was pressing “O,” “T,” “A,” Yuri got a message. He closed the contact sheet quickly, unfinished, and read,

 

**Unknown number**

**I had to return the bike. I’m at the airport. Sorry**

 

Yuri ran his hands down his face. He locked his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and sat. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed while he stared out into the sparkling deluge. Yuri decided to call this emotion ‘disappointment,’ though he had never such a deep emptiness before. Even when he started to place lower and lower, as his knees buckled and his shoulders popped, Yuri never faltered. He never showed his hand.

Yuri rose eventually, led through the city by an invisible pull, guiding him around corners and under dimly lit street signs. He made it back to his apartment, fumbled delicately with the key in the door, and slid into the apartment. It looked so bare. He threw his keyring onto the side table, which knocked over what was placed teetering on the edge. It was the letter that Mila had given him from Yakov.

Yuri curiously picked up the envelope and eyed it. Yakov’s sturdy handwriting was indicative of a younger age. Clearly this letter had been sealed ages ago.

He slid a finger under the rim of the sealing. It gave him a papercut. With his finger perched in his mouth, he maneuvered the folded legal head paper from the sleeve and tossed the empty shell away. It unfolded easily in his hands. Two sheets, tacked together with a paperclip.

The first was a will. Yakov must have had it written up ages ago. The date was 31 December 2016. It was wordy, and with bleary eyes, Yuri could hardly make out what it said. He suspected this was what Lilia wanted. He flipped over the will and looked at the second paper. It was a letter. Hand written. That same solid penmanship.

 

_Yuri,_

 

_If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Please give my regards to Lilia if she managed to outlive me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I took her out when I went._

 

_You and Mila are the children I never knew I wanted. Teaching you two has been such a pleasure. I’ve entrusted you with my will so that Lilia cannot get her hands on it. Make sure that you keep my legacy safe. I trust you two._

 

_On the other side of this paper is an address. Your father lives there. You might want to look him up._

 

_Love, Yakov_

 

Outside, Yuri heard the call of a motorcycle’s engine. He wanted to run to the window and cry out, scream, “Stop! Come back!” but he knew the words would leave his mouth, reverberate around the dusty stone walls of his adoptive city, then lie limp on the cobblestones, not even falling upon deaf ears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Thanks for the support. This chapter is a little shorter, has a little less action and more introspection, but be sure that the next one is going to be packed full.

He woke up on the couch, phone in one hand and Yakov’s letter in the other. Yuri could sense that it was already morning even though the sun was not yet peeking through his windows. He raised his phone to his face. The bright light cast dizzying patches across his vision, but as his eyes adjusted, the clock on the front shone 06:25. Yuri groaned. His hair, almost as long as it was when he was fifteen, was scattered variously across his face. He usually tied it back when he slept, but waking up that morning he found lost strands of oily, blonde hair in his mouth. He hadn’t showered in a few days because Yakov’s business kept him busy. He quickly debated: take a shower now or get himself up and get into his actual bed? Both required rising from the couch, so that, at least, was the first step.

He walked over to the window and peeled back the thin curtain. A miniscule stroke of light was rising against the horizon to the east. He could see it if he peered his head around the corner. The autumn earthly rotations kept the city from becoming light before morning had begun. Yuri knew it would be a while before that tiny sliver became the sun. And yet he knew that he shouldn’t go back to bed.

Standing in front of the window, Yuri stripped off his clothes. The tie had been loosened around his neck already, but removing it felt like stepping out of heavy armor. Next, Yuri undid the stiff, black belt he wore, letting his pants fall in a swift motion. He walked to the bathroom as he undid his shirt buttons.

He was numb as he twisted the dials for the shower. It was just about freezing outside, and Yuri hopped directly into the cold water instead of waiting for the water to heat up. He shivered and cursed, working the piercing water into his scalp to wet his clingy hair. Slowly, the heat began rising and Yuri settled in for a long, comforting shower.

However, he couldn’t stay calm for long. Perhaps it was the dew of sleep that kept the remembrances at bay. As Yuri’s muscles warmed up under the searing water, so did his mind. First, the vision of Yakov’s words drifted into his mind. Yuri had never met his father. The story he operated under was that his mother, who died when Yuri was eleven, became pregnant at the childish age of seventeen. His father was never in the picture; they were neither married nor cordial. Thus, Yuri kept the Plisetsky name passed down by his grandfather. If his father was what Lilia wanted to keep from him, Yuri had no idea why.

Then, as smoothly as if it were silk, visions of Otabek clad in leather flowed into his mind’s eye. Yuri hadn’t responded to his last text; what would be say, anyway? Thank you for the flowers? Yakov would’ve loved them? Hope you had a good flight? Yuri couldn’t comprehend what kept Otabek from saying hello when he arrived at the wake, but based on his reaction last night after missing Otabek at the riverside, he may have done the same. He, too, might have run away. It was a tordid friendship, calloused with insincerity and negligence. Yuri replayed the clip of Otabek’s bike disappearing in the distance in his mind over and over. It got easier to imagine each time. The hazy details were filled in with falsified fantasies, ideas that Yuri had which made it easier to comprehend Otabek’s actions.

Yuri took in a deep breath, feeling water flitting down his head and flirting with entering his nostrils as he inspired. He tilted his head back, plugged the back of his throat and let the sensation of water overtaking him wash down his body. It was a quiet panic. Yuri imagined he was drowning in a deep ocean, somewhere in the desert, the acrid air stinging his forehead and the water spilling into his chest like fine sand. He turned his face away from the stream. In a sharp pulse, he shot the water that was in his nose out and giggled at the noise it made. Little childish things made him feel present again.

He looked down over his body. The cascades fitted neatly into his sturdy Russian frame. Long gone were the days of deltas on his skin, where muscular valleys neatly siphoned the water into pools around his naked form. He felt soft and particular. He grasped at his chest where once lean pectorals were and now tiny domes of fat were accumulating. Age, he decided, was not the culprit, and neither was his diet--he was vegetative, inathletic, and lumbering as of late. The small ponch of belly fat that had grown around his pubic hair taunted him with jolly hatred. Even his body hair, which Yuri had come to terms with in his early twenties, was unkempt and wild; a representation of his younger self stared back at him through his inability to properly groom. He had no desire to actually wash his body.

He shut the water off and let the remaining droplets pool between his feet. He stepped out of the tub and quickly wrapped himself up in a towel to hide from the Russian cold. His feet left damp imprints on the cheap laminate floor as he pattered his way over to his bedroom to dress. He chose his clothes, stood in front of the mirror and slowly stepped into his outfit. He folded his hair behind his ears and stared into the mirror. He moved his face back and forth, observing the week-long stubble playing across his jaw. Part of him wished his beard grew in thicker.

His eyes drifted down to the photos that were taped up to the mirror. Instead of looking at them as he did before, he grabbed them and ripped them from the glass. He stared blankly at the photo of his Grand Prix win before casting it aside onto the boudoir. In each hand he held the two remaining photos: his podium snapshot with Katsuki and Otabek, and the photo of him and his grandfather from childhood.

He observed the photo of him and his grandfather. The absence of emotion was not unusual for Yuri. In fact, he had becomes friends with the feeling in recent years. All he could see was the empty space on the right side of the photo, a place where perhaps his father could have been. He tossed the photo on top of the other.

The photo with Otabek and him sharing a glance remained. As he looked, Yuri tried to mimic the gleeful visage he had in the photo. It was, as he earlier had realized, trusting and open. His mind flashed again to the glance the two had shared the day before--Yuri, half thrust out of an open window, and Otabek, motorcycle helmet disguising his face. What a different feeling, he remarked to himself. How would it have been if they had actually met up last night? He delicately placed that photo on top of the others.

Yuri slowly made his way to the front door, grabbed his keys and the documents that Yakov had left him, then slipped outside into the late-October air. He read the will as he walked. The beginning was uninteresting. Mostly detailing the things that would be left to his horrible sister and various other ex-wives whom Yuri had only heard mentioned by name a handful of times. Why did he have to take care of this, Yuri thought, there were so many people to coordinate with, not to mention lawyers… 

He kept reading, and as he got to the end, he noticed Mila and his names. He quickly scanned the final paragraphs. He stopped in his tracks. He read the two paragraphs again.

_ \--Mila Babicheva and Yuri Plisetsky, hereby known as “recipients”-- _

He skipped ahead.

_ \--entrusted the entirety of Feltsman’s estate, all of that which was not bequeathed in the previous addendums-- _

Entrusted his estate? What did that mean? Yuri stood in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the early-morning passersby. He didn’t move for them as they approached and scoffed. He read it a third time. And a fourth. Yuri was fairly certain that he understood, but needed to be certain. If he was right, Yakov had left Mila and him his apartment and everything in it. 

  
  
  


He knew Mila was at the rink coaching juniors for the entire afternoon. He snuck in the back entrance so it wouldn’t make a fuss--he hadn’t been in that particular rink in months. There was a smaller, dingier one that he attended maybe once a week on the other side of town since in trying to avoid both Yakov and the humiliation of skaters who were now better than him, the popular rink was all but off limits. It was still early, not even 08:00, but Mila and her thirteen and fourteen year old students were working hard when Yuri walked in. Nikolai, Mila’s husband, noticed Yuri come in the back and snuck over to him. Yuri gave him a small head nod and mentioned he had to speak with Mila about Yakov. Nikolai, ever the push-over, immediately acquiesced and slunk back to the skate booth. Yuri went and sat behind Mila in the stands, hand gripping the papers from Yakov tightly. What would he tell her? He knew he would let her read the will for herself, but did she need to know about the rest?

Finally, she noticed him sitting behind her and motioned for him to come join her. Reluctantly, Yuri rose and trounced over the risers down to where Mila was perched like a panther on the railing, watching her students. She raised her eyebrows at him as if to say, “What’s going on?”

Yuri silently handed over the will to Mila. She eyed it impatiently, but then, realizing what it was, called out for the preteens to take ten minutes to practice the choreography she was having them create on their own. Mila led Yuri over to a secluded part of the stands so the two of them could discuss in private.

“Where did you find this?” Her confusion read on her face as she scanned through the first few paragraphs.

“It was in the envelope that you gave me. From Yakov.”

“Have you read it?” Mila cautiously asked..

“Yeah, just as I was coming over.” Yuri felt a lump form in his throat. “Skip to the last two paragraphs.”

Yuri nervously watched Mila skim down to the bottom. Her face began to shift as she read the fine print. Mila was always more contract-savvy than Yuri was, which is why his grandfather usually took care of his paperwork. Mila seemed to understand everything in one fell swoop.

“His house? This is insane.” She ran her hand down her face, wiping off her shock. “I mean, I knew that he felt close to me… I guess I did just talk about how he was like a father to me.” She laughed out into the cold air of the rink, then returned to the paper. “Seriously though, this is unexpected. What are we meant to do with all that crap?”

Yuri shrugged impatiently. “You think I know?” Mila was rereading the will. Hesitantly, Yuri motioned to the other paper that was still attached by a paper clip. As she read that, Yuri watched the young skaters dance around the rink. For the most part, their choreography was uninspired and frivolous, but Yuri never choreographed his own routines. It wasn’t his strong suit, and yet he was still a decorated skating champion. He had hope for those kids.

Regret crept up in his gut. He wished that he was out there with one of the students, skating again, getting ready to compete. They all looked so excited, but Yuri knew only two or three of them would continue into professional skating. Mila knew that, too. Yakov had stressed time and time again that they, including Georgi, were special. Mila was new to teaching, however, and had no idea how to instill that upon her students. She wouldn’t have even been teaching that class, had it not been for Yakov’s death.

Suddenly, Mila’s face shot up at Yuri. She had obviously reached the final line. She presented him with what was half a smile, half a grimace of understanding. “Yuri, this is--...” A noise of astonishment released from her throat. Her eyes darted around rapidly in front of her. She flipped the page over and spied the address. “Are you going to go to Moscow to meet him?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“You grew up there, right?” Yuri nodded. His silence caused Mila to lift her gaze from the letter. “Yuri, if you need me to come with you--”

A bright red streak burned straight into the apples of Yuri’s cheeks. “No! God, I don’t need a twat like you tagging along to help me talk to my father.”

“So you  _ are _ going.”

He clammed up and messed around with his shoes. Mila sensed that Yuri was distraught, glanced over at her young skaters, and changed the subject.

“What did you and Otabek do last night? Sorry that Lilia kept us there so long.”

“I missed him. He was gone when I got there.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry, Yuri.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Yuri deflected.

While looking away, Yuri missed the knowing look that Mila shot at him. She didn’t have much time left to speak, though--Nikolai was looking for her, their three children, two five-year-old twin boys and a seven-year-old girl, following, making a ruckus in the rental booth. The apprentice skaters were getting impatient and wanted to show Mila their choreography, and Nikolai’s inept surveillance couldn’t handle both Mila and his children and the junior class. She fished through her pocket quickly, threw Yuri a key, and said, “Make a copy for yourself. That way we can… you know. We’re home-owners now.” She smiled at her own joke. Yuri didn’t say anything, just took the key and let her walk back down over the bleacher seats to resume class. Yuri collected his thoughts, content to worry about Yakov, his father, and not Otabek, stalked down the stairs of the audience and crept out the way he came in lest Nikolai ask him about Mila and his conversation. He also had no desire to interact with those children.

The door closed silently behind him and Yuri, key clutched in his palm, shot down the street, feeling a twinge of determination for the first time in years.

  
  
  
  


The apartment smelled musty and leathery with hints of spoiled leftover food from the wake. Without the bustle of people, the apartment oozed demure, painful obsolescence. What Yuri and Mila were to do with this place now that it was theirs, he had no idea.

He stood for a moment in the foyer. He had never been in the apartment alone; either Mila or Yakov had been there whenever he set foot in the modest home. He bit his lip and looked down the hallway. He didn’t know where to start. Or even what he was doing there.

The parlor had remnants of a get-together. Mila hadn’t finished cleaning up yet. There were napkins strewn all over the glossy surfaces, a few forgotten champagne glasses--if one looked ignorantly enough, it looked like a delightful party had happened there. Yuri hadn’t been in that room since he broke down crying in front of Yakov’s guests. He went to the kitchen through the small doorway, immediately meeting a wall of smell. Something was rotting in the fridge. Since it was essentially his responsibility, Yuri opened the refrigerator to investigate. It was some hors d’oeuvre platters, covered in plastic wrap, practically melting in time. Yuri wasn’t sure where the garbage was, so he left the food alone. He had more important things to do than wash dishes.

He had to ask himself: what was he doing there? He already had his father’s address, so why did snooping around what was his by decree draw him so seductively? There might be answers, he decided, in why Yuri hadn’t met his father yet. Why had Yakov kept his man a secret when he obviously knew his whereabouts this whole time?

He left the kitchen, went through the parlor, and dipped into the study without thinking. At first, he mentally began thinking of ways to organize and go through Yakov’s assets, but when he reached the desk, the view through Yuri’s familiar window came into view. He felt his heart sink step by step as he approached the paned glass. He threw open the window and stuck his head back out into the cold, late-October air. The street down which Otabek had disappeared looked the same. There were a few people ducking in and out of buildings, unaware of Yuri’s gaze. He watched after them for a moment or two, hoping that perhaps a motorcycle would come careening down the opposite way, but nothing happened. Yuri floated back to the desk.

He knew the most important documents would be in direct reach from Yakov’s favorite chair, so Yuri started there. He had to admit, Viktor was right--sitting in that plush, velvety chair really felt great. He felt commanding and powerful--things that Yuri hadn’t felt in so long. The corners of his mouth turned up just from the friction of the fabric against his bare arms. He had to resist the urge to relish, or to gloat--God, it felt amazing to be in Yakov’s shoes. Yuri imagined for a moment that he, not Yakov, were the coach of all of those students who did so well internationally. What pride he would feel. How calm he would be as he lay his head down each night to sleep, comforted by the thought of generational glory. Mila had usurped that glory from him, he supposed, but where had Yuri been to put up a fight? In his apartment, most likely, reeling and spinning with depressive thoughts. Besides, Yuri thought, would teaching even be that great? Surely in recent years, even if Yuri had stuck with it, his short temper and flighty emotions wouldn’t make him a good coach. Perhaps it was just a longing for Yakov, a desire for the controlled, that Yuri was pining after. He shook his head to dispel the thoughts.

He tucked his hair behind his ears again, cursing himself for not bringing a hair-tie, and then dove into the top side drawer of the desk. It was only half-full. Letters to people Yuri did not know, some photographs of young Yakov, and receipts upon receipts. He put them back. The second drawer was just pencils, parchment, and office supplies. The last one on the side had a lock, but the key was already dangling out of it. He turned the key, but when he opened it, it was empty. Yakov must have cleared this out recently, Yuri thought.

Then there was the long, thin drawer directly underneath the desktop. He slid it open. Right on top there was a photo of Yuri, Mila, and Georgi. Yuri was sixteen when it was taken, he knew because that was the year that Yuri, fed up with the pressures of Lilia and Yakov, shaved his head in defiance. His buzzed blonde hair fit his young frame well, but contrasted against the feminine outfit that Yakov and Lilia stuffed him into (and Yuri finally realized it was really stuffed--no wonder that had been his last year in leotards). They looked decently happy. Yuri placed the photo to the side to keep.

Underneath it were three letters. The first was from Lilia to Yakov. It read:

 

_ My cherished Yakov, _

 

_ Thank you for your letter. I saw you on the news--Russia’s best! I can’t believe that of all people, Russia’s best chose me. I’m so very proud of you, Yakov, and I can’t wait for your return. Moscow is chilly enough as it is. _

 

Yuri skimmed through some romantic drivel.

 

_ Boris and Irina say hello. I’ll call you later this week, but I wanted to write you personally so that you could always remember how proud I am of you. _

 

Under that, scribbled in a different handwriting,

 

_ (and the rest of us!!) _

 

Then, back to Lilia.

 

_ Love always, Lilia _

 

It was dated 1970. Yakov must have been in his mid-twenties then. Yuri pondered the letter for a moment. Who were Boris and Irina?

The next letter had curved, hasty handwriting.

 

_ Yakov, _

 

_ I’m hoping by the time Yuri is 10, he’ll be training with you. I’m not sure Masha really wants him to skate--though I think her father would support him. Please--encourage her as much as you can. _

 

_ I’m doing well, so don’t worry about me. I’m looking forward to seeing Yuri representing our country someday under your instruction. Nothing would bring me more joy. _

 

_ Konstantin _

_ 4 April 2003 _

 

Last was a postcard from Konstantin.

 

_ Yakov, _

 

_ Thank you for telling me. If you think it would help, I could come meet Yuri. I hope you and Kolya are managing. _

 

_ Konstantin _

_ June 2012 _

 

June of 2012. That was the month that Yuri’s mother, Masha, had passed away. Clearly this man was important enough to Yakov that he kept constant contact with him, detailing each moment of Yuri’s life. Yuri wondered what other letters might exist in Yakov’s belongings--what other secrets about his father might be hiding within the dozens of filing cabinets littered around what was now Yuri’s apartment. It would take weeks to go through it all, even with Mila’s help. He fingered his pocket. The letter from Yakov with his father’s address was folded up and tucked away inside.

He put the various papers down on the desktop, but then noticed a final note that had been shoved into the back of the drawer. He pulled it out.

 

_ Yakov, _

 

_ I was watching last week. Kind of painful. I hope he’s happy with how it turned out. _

 

_ You should stop dressing him in those girly outfits. He looks like a fairy with that long hair of his. _

 

_ Konstantin _

_ April 2020 _

 

Yuri couldn’t help but laugh. His nickname preceded him, the Russian Fairy. He hadn’t heard that in years, even though he knew his father was being abrasive. Konstantin wasn’t referencing his nickname. He wondered if his father knew the nickname; perhaps that’s why he said it. Yuri hadn’t kept his homosexuality a secret from the media. Though he never openly spoke about it, after he hit puberty the assumption was just that he liked boys. He had never dated anyone long enough for it to matter to the public sphere, but word got around…

He imagined what it would be like to approach his father in the state he was in. Depressed, long-haired, and sexually confused. The thought saddened him. He toyed with his blonde locks as he sat in Yakov’s chair. Though his sexual growth had been a topic of discussion many times in the past, he had never felt ridiculed or judged for his choices. How could his father, someone whom he had never met, cast such pious aspersions about Yuri’s sexual orientation? And again, he thought, like this ordeal with Otabek--why did he care so much?

The letter dizzied him. He lay back in the chair, lounging as best he could, before a familiar push of nausea took over him. He hadn’t eaten all day and his body was probably chewing up his bone marrow at that point. A quick splash of water on his face and he would go get something to eat, he decided.

Yuri walked down the hallway back to the washroom where he hid during the wake. He turned the faucet on and dunked his hands into the cold water. It felt good to douse himself with it, but when he turned his face up to the mirror, he hated what he saw. A broken-down fairy, cold, shivering, long past his prime. The strands of hair around his face that were wetted when he tossed the handful of water were sinewy and vague. The chalky complexion on his cheeks exacerbated by the freezing pitch. He stared deeply at his face. That ugly hair that made him look like a fairy. He couldn’t face his father looking like this.

He frantically searched through the cupboards in the bathroom. He found just what he wanted: a pair of hair clippers. They were sparkling clean; Yakov only seldom had facial hair, and when he did, he was loathe to groom it himself. Yuri practically tossed the plug into the wall, set it to its lowest setting, and began hacking away at his shoulder-length hair.

Each lock of hair falling into the sink and onto the floor gave Yuri such a satisfying rush. It was exhilarating. Suddenly his head didn’t weigh as much. Piece by piece, shear by shear, his mind opened up and felt new. The cool air slapping against his scalp was welcome. His eyes were no longer hindered by curtains of gold. He could see the thick ringlets on the ground, curling in resistance of death, and he kicked them aside as he tore away at his features.

When he was done, Yuri observed his creation. He was a completely different person. He hadn’t shaved his head since he was sixteen, and then, with his changing body unpredictable, the look was fitting but didn’t carry social weight. With the disposition that Yuri then carried combined with his more sturdy, heavy-footed body, Yuri looked positively menacing. His blushing maiden cheeks were now sunburnt dimples. The stubble that once offset his femininity now perfectly framed his lean jaw. He’d never felt afraid of himself before, yet Yuri, faced with a new chapter of his life, found a deep dread in the pit of his stomach that went down further than fear of his father’s spurning, fear of Otabek’s rejection, fear of settling as Mila had done. He was unsure of what he was capable. This new face in the mirror was leading the way, staring back at him with a tiger’s green eyes.


End file.
